Cinderfin
by PenguinsTophatx
Summary: Because every fandom needs a fairytale, right? Except Finley Bardolf isn't exactly interested in glass slippers or riding in pumpkins. What she is interested in, however, is proving her worth, even if that means knocking down the gates of Stormwind.
1. Chapter 1

Hi! This is (in case you hadn't guessed by now) my new WoW Fic. I know this first chapter might be a wee bit depressing (or at least it attempts it. It is a funeral, after all.). But have no fear! Future chapters will have attempted humor as opposed to attempted angst, seeing as angst is annoying, and no one wants to be that weird kid in the corner moaning about high priced shirts at hot topic and whatnot. And I do hope it will make you smile (hopefully in good humor, not in a kind of pained grimace that looks like a smile.)

So, without further ado, I present the first chapter of CinderFin!

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><p>Mitras Sootbeard never imagined that he would be returning to Goldshire for a funeral.<p>

Prior to this, the town had been the site of some of his happier memories, most centering around Malbur Bardolf, a man the dwarf was proud to call his commanding officer, and more importantly, his finest friend. Goldshire was where Malbur, Mitras and a few of their fellow soldiers had made their home after the Third War, ready to take their steps back to a normal life. Goldshire was where he celebrated festivals of every sort, a smile on his face and a pint in his hand. Goldshire was where friends gathered at the Baldorf residence around the glow of a warm fire to fondly remember a time before their muscles lost their tone and their hair began to gray.

Now, however, he was returning to Goldshire to put Malbur Baldorf in the ground.

It wasn't the least bit fair. Malbur was a good man. Honest, friendly, generous, all the sort of qualities mothers wished their children would have. He was the sort of man who should have lived to a ripe old age, with innumerable grandchildren clambering around him. Instead, all it took was a few stray arrows to snuff out his life.

He felt a wave of regret wash over him as he slipped on a heavy black jacket. He always intended to visit Malbur and Aindri more often, but he was a dwarf, and unaccustomed to the short lives of humans. For his people, there would always be another day, month, year to catch up. At least, that was what he told himself after Aindri's death, but the truth was that it was hard to be around Malbur after that. Visits would begin pleasantly enough, but their small talk would eventually turn to their memories of the war, and Malbur would end up staring forlornly at the end of the table as both men felt the emptiness in their hearts like a knife.

He straightened his jacket and peered into the mirror. It was too small, pulling at the shoulders and fraying at the seams, but it wasn't often that he was need of such apparel. Making final adjustments before leaving for the ceremony, he began to tidy his wheat colored beard. His thick fingers stilled in their work as another thought occurred to him.

Malbur and Aindri had a daughter. How could he have forgotten? His chin still ached at the memory of her pudgy little infant-hands reaching up to yank a silver clasp from his beard. She had been a energetic little ankle-biter, always badgering him for questions on his life as a mercenary. She also certainly didn't subscribe to the rule that children ought to be seen and not heard, but she was undoubtedly the light of her parents life. It was obvious from Malbur's letters, which practically glowed with pride when describing her to his childless compatriot. He heard all about her first tooth, her first steps, her first word (birdie), her joy of having her first pet, a puppy, and the surprise when she began exhibiting signs of having a talent in the magical field, strange considering both of her parents were warriors.

His letters of her later years were far less full of sunshine. She clashed with his new wife and the letters were full of his distress at that. He had only married her on the advice of his sister, who insisted that the girl needed feminine influence. The tension only lessened once the girl enrolled in school in Dalaran a year ago, but he could only imagine how awkward holiday dinners were.

Mitras couldn't blame the daughter- Finley- though. The woman Malbur married was a uptight little tart, and he couldn't quite figure out why he had ever wed her. Deep down he knew it was because Malbur was soft-hearted to a dangerous extreme and that anyone could worm their way into his heart with a few well timed words, a trait that he and Ralen, an elf that made up the last member of their little group, had tried to train him out of, to no avail. Despite knowing this, he continually spouted his theory that Elois, a mage, had most certainly ensnared him in a spell of some sort.

He was interrupted from his musings by a knock on his door.

"Mitras? Are you ready?" He heard Ralen's smooth voice on the other side of the door. He glanced one last time into the mirror before sighing and opening the door.

"As I'll ever be." He said grimly, accompanying the elf down the stairs and out of the inn. Ralen nodded in agreement to the sentiment.

Most of the town seemed to be going to the same place they were. It was a small place, after all, and Malbur would likely to have been well known by most everyone. The small church was packed with black-clad villagers. The mismatched pair eventually located two seats in the wooden pews, though much to Mitras distaste, he was seated next to Cecilia, Malbur's prissy younger sister, the one who encouraged him to marry Elois. His greeting was terse, and once pleasantries were out of the way, he pointedly faced forward and away from her scrunched up face.

At the front of the church he could easily pick out Elois, from her pin straight posture and pale blonde hair. There were three girls sitting near her; two more flaxen haired ones, which he could only assume were Elois' wretched spawn, and an out of place dark-haired one, which must have been Finley.

With the ceremony not started yet, Mitras settled for leaning back and glaring daggers ahead, hoping that with enough willpower he could begin to burn holes in the back of her perfectly arranged coif. When Ralen nudged him with a questioning look, all he had to do was gesture in her general direction before understanding dawned on the ranger's face.

"That's not very mature." He said quietly so only the dwarf could hear. Mitras scowled.

"I never claimed to be mature." He grumbled, crossing his thick arms. Ralen sighed and rolled his eyes before proceeding to talk to Cecilia over the hunter's head. Mitras continued to ignore the polite inquiries about about the elf's family in favor of his glaring practice until an elderly man heaved himself on to the pulpit, dry coughs racking his frail body.

"We are gathered here today," He began to rasp, " not to mourn the death of Malbur Baldorf, but rather to celebrate a a good man who led a great, moral life full of accomplishments..."

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><p>An hour later, in the town's small cemetery , Mitras couldn't help but let a few tears trickle down his cheeks and into his beard as the casket was gently lowered into the ground, and finally covered with earth. He furiously rubbed them away with a calloused handas he stood there for felt like hours, watching a few local farmboys shoveled dirt on top of the grave until the hole was filled and he was the only one left, staring down at the grave with a faraway look in his eyes. Ralen had long wandered off to offer his condolences to the widow.<p>

Finally, Mitras released a heavy sigh, patting the headstone gently.

"Goodbye, old friend." He murmured softly, finally backing away from the grave, his shoulders slumped. His throat was tight and there was a pit in his stomach and he was eager to forget it by drowning his sorrows in a few pints before he returned to Ironforge. However, he was more than a few copper short and Ralen was nowhere to be found. He scanned the tranquil area in search of the elf, but his eyes instead fell upon a huddle of the final mourners under a nearby willow.

Though he may have been biased, Elois looked as haughty as ever, and the two teenage girls by her side were quite obviously inherited her sour personality. They looked utterly bored with the whole ordeal, nudging each other and whispering snarky little comments about those who came forward to offer their sympathies.

However, what really drew his attention was the third girl accompanying them.. To anyone else, she was a miserable looking creature, all arms and legs, with red rimmed eyes and a trembling mouth.

But Mitras froze when her watery gaze fell upon him, and gulped past the lump in his throat, for beyond her grief-induced expression, all he could see was the spitting image of Aindri staring back at him with bright green eyes. His gaze then dropped to her shoulder, where Elois's perfectly painted red nails dug into the black cloth, and he came to a sudden conclusion.

"Ready to go home?" Ralen asked him. Mitras started at his voice, turning around to find the elf standing up from kneeling at Aindri's grave. He glanced one last time back at Finley before clearing his throat.

"'m not going home, Ral." He finally announced gruffly. "I'm staying here." Ralen's glowing blue eyes widened in shock and confusion.

"What are you talking about, Sootbeard?" He finally sputtered. Mitras, meanwhile, had begun to lumber back towards town.

"Well, how about to buy me a few pints and maybe I'll explain it to ya, eh?" He called over his shoulder, a new determination putting a little bit of a bounce in his step as he strode towards Goldshire, a bemused elf trailing in his wake.

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><p>So, there's that. You see? I'm awful with angst. I wouldn't touch it with a ten foot pole. Also, I love dwarves. So much, like woah. And I'm also sick of pretty people with pretty names. I see your Malianali Sparkly Dawnsinginglarknymph and raise you <em>Bardolf. <em>That is one smokin' hot surname and I love it.

So, please review if you feel so inclined to tell me your thoughts, and stay tuned for the next chapter!


	2. Chapter 2

Hey guys! Welcome back to Cinderfin. I know I took a ridiculously long time to update, I normally like to get the second chapter of a new story out fairly promptly. Anyway, I have some important thoughts about changes in this story, but I'll let you read this chapter before you hear about them.

Be sure to read the author's note below!

**Most** **importantly** though, bundles of thanks to my two reviewers, _Maginsha_ and _Kuestro_! Reviews make me feel all gooey inside, and you guys are awesome :)

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><p>A large explosion rocked the air, shattering the serenity of Elwynn Forest and sending all the nearby birds flying into the air in a panic, squawking angrily. Of course, those were the ones that escaped. There were more than a few who thudded to the ground.<p>

This was no longer an unusual occurrence. For the last five years the people of Goldshire had grown used to the engineers that had set up shop a short distance from town. It was a mid-sized place, and fairly shoddy looking. The walls were soot stained and dented, with shards of metal embedded at random intervals. The surrounding yard was strewn with scrap metal thrown haphazardly from the workshop's double doors. Above said doors hung a sign that at once time said 'Errol's Engineering Emporium' in bold letters, but someone had hurriedly nailed a sign that said "Sootbeard's" over Errol's name.

Inside, a girl emerged from the smoke, doubling over with violent coughs.

"I take it de wire does not go there?" Tulaan asked hesitantly as she hobbled over to open a window.

"Not quite, " She rasped, pulling up the pane of glass to release the thick smoke that was billowing around the workshop. The large draenei quickly moved to help her with the other windows. She sighed, flopping into a rickety looking chair and taking a deep gulp of water to soothe her burning throat as Tulaan puzzled over some cryptic plans.

"Ah!" He exclaimed, his eyes brightening as he lay the plans down on the table, clearing a spot in the pile of trinkets lying there. "See? De wire actually goes to this place, not there."

Finley pushed her goggles to the top of her head and leaned over to where his blue finger was pointing. She groaned once she saw it and spun the plans to face her, Tulaan coming to hover over her shoulder.

"How exactly did you miss that, space-boy?" She questioned. Tulaan shrugged his massive shoulders.

"Tese human letters are so small and strange. Tey are hard to read." She gave him a withering look.

"You could have killed me!" She complained, grabbing a particularly shiny piece of metal to use as a mirror. Her face was moderately cut up, but otherwise had escaped unharmed once she had thrown her arm up. The rest of her had been protected by multiple layers of thick cloth and leather. She did note with some satisfaction, that her new goggles had done what she bought them for; her eyebrows had escaped unscathed. She had burnt them off more than a few times before, and had to endure the incessant jibes of Belinda and Estelle until they grew back. It wasn't quite an experience she looked to relive.

"It was not de intent," Tulaan said, looking worried. She stood up with a grimace.

"I know," She muttered, crossing her arms and surveying the mess they had created. Parts had flown everywhere in the blast, making the workshop messier than it previously had been, and adding a few new dents to the wall. But her eyes were trained on the blackened ruin in the center of the room that was once an engine. Even from here she could tell that it was entirely irreparable, bent and twisted until it was unrecognizable.

"Perhaps next time we try without magic?" Tulaan suggested. Finley glanced down at her gloved fingers, letting a few arcane sparks jump between her them, and then closed her hand, snuffing them out alongside thoughts of a violet city.

"I suppose so." She replied dully, "never seems to turn out well anyway." After a moment, she pushed the dissapointment aside and took a deep breath. "Well, we'd best have this place cleaned up before Mitras get back..." She trailed off upon seeing Tulaan's eyes widen. "What?"

"Too late." He said simply. She spun, only to see a very angry dwarf in the doorway, accompanied by an aging, but still ferocious looking bear.

"Oh, er, _hey _Mitras," She stuttered. "We, uh didn't expect you to be back quite so soon."

"Well, that's bloody obvious isn't it?" He growled, taking in the disaster zone. "A day! I leave you two alone fer a day, and ye try an' blow up me bloody workshop!" He was now taking angry strides towards the pair, his face in a menacing scowl. Finley raised her hands in a non-threatening gesture as she backed away from the irate dwarf.

"We didn't mean to make a mess! It was an accident!" She cried, taking one step backward for every two the dwarf took towards her.

"Oh, an accident, aye? Was it an accident that ye were working on the damn gyrocopter after I specifically told ye to leave it be while I was gone?" He accused, jabbing his finger into her stomach. She fidgeted uncomfortably.

"Well, I uh...no." She admitted, clasping her hands nervously. "But Tulaan and I had finished all the other jobs, and we figured that it couldn't hurt to put the finishing touches on the engine!"

"Well it obviously hurt didn't it!" He snapped. She gingerly touched her split lip.

"A little bit." She muttered, but Mitras had now turned his wrath on Tulaan as well.

"You two are the lousiest, most irresponsible louts I have ever seen." He declared. "I hardly know why I keep ye around." Tulaan looked far more stricken by this statement than Finley did, his tail drooping a little, though they both got this speech at least once a month. Besides, it was an outright lie. Tulaan was amongst the more talented engineers that Mitras had ever met, able to work wonders with the most complicated machinery. In fact, it was surprising that he still worked in such a small-time place, though Mitras certainly wasn't going to complain.

"Sorry, Master Sootbeard." He apologized, bowing at the waist to the short man. "It will not happen again." Mitras, for his part, looked taken aback by the apology, being used to arguing with Finley.

"Eh? Get up, boy, there's no bowing here. " He said, jabbing the draenei in the shoulder.

"Don't worry, Tully. You'll lose those insufferable manners someday." She said, patting him on the cheek, and leaving a grease hand-print there. She was smiling now, deciding that the storm of Mitras' anger had receded. She was right, but that didn't mean he was finished with her yet.

"You," He said gruffly, grabbing her elbow. "Clean. Now." She saluted lazily.

"Aye, aye. Cap'n." She said before grabbing a broom and setting about her task.

Cleaning, as it turned out, was a far bigger job than she expected it to be. She had long since lugged the carcass of the engine from the room and to the scrap shed outside. The floors were also swept clean, and she and Tulaan had set to cleaning the walls of soot. Now, she was sitting cross legged on the hard floor beside a pile of parts and instruments that had flown every which way during the explosion, trying to decide which were still usable. She frowned, holding up a socket to her inspection, and then made a disapproving sound, tossing it into the rubbish heap on her right side.

"My, my." A voice above her said as a long, slender finger reached out to lift her chin up. "Engaging in pugilism now?"

Finley glowered and slapped the elf's hand away before he could continue to examine her injuries. "Shove it Caldon." She snapped. He stepped back, giving her a mock hurt look.

"I was simply concerned for you," He claimed, and she snorted.

"Battle scars." She responded, tapping his boot with her wrench. "Better watch out." It was his turn to give her a disbelieving look.

"The day I'm afraid of _you _grease-girl." He began, careful to move his boots away from any oil in the area. "Will be a sad day indeed for the Sunbreeze family." Finley rolled her eyes at the high elf.

"They day you were born was a sad day for your family, you silly fop" She taunted, pushing an oil tin closer to his embroidered footwear. He hopped nimbly back at the slightest movement.

"Oi! No fighting, children." Mitras warned from across the room, giving them a dark look over the blunderbuss he was tending to, the bear by his feet. Finley nodded and grinned, ever so subtly jabbing Caldon in the back of the leg with her wrench. He responded by snapping her goggles rather painfully against her head. They two only stopped their antics when Charlie lifted his graying head and growled. Mitras sighed, patting the creature on the head.

"How'd we get stuck babysitting, eh?" He asked, as Caldon left the workshop for the small room adjacent to the building, where all of their records and money was kept. The wizened bear grumbled slightly and lay his head back on his paws, not gracing him with an answer. It was partially true; Mitras didn't exactly have anyone with experience on his staff. Finley, was of course a fair enough engineer with half a mage's training, Tulaan was a draenei who could barely comprehend the world of Azeroth, and Caldon was Ralen Sunbreeze's wayward son. A bit of an embarrassment, though the only reason he had ever drawn was that the ranger actually used a musket instead of the traditional bow. Mitras sighed. A motley crew indeed. As he contemplated the situation, he happened to glance outside, only to see the sun beginning to descend towards the horizon.

"Lass, oughtn't you be heading home?" He called. Finley looked out the window, only to curse and jump to her feet. In quick succession, she removed her gloves, goggles, and stained overs-shirt, all while muttering '_She's gonna kill me, she's gonna kill me.' _over and over again. Before he could even blink, she had shouted a farewell and was running out the door.

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><p>"You're late."<p>

Panting as she shut the door behind her, Finley turned to see a woman standing in the hallway, a markedly displeased expression gracing her face. She might have once been pretty, but her blonde hair was now shot with gray, and her face was drawn and lined, overall giving her a severe, unpleasant appearance.

"Sorry." Finley muttered, not looking particularly sorry in the least

"Don't forget that I _allow _you to go fiddle in that shack out of generosity." She warned. "Don't test me unless you want to see the consequences." Finley snorted at the mention of her so called generosity and brushed by her step-mother.

"Right." She snapped, stalking down the hall away from Elois and towards the kitchen. Unfortunately, seeing that, in her haste, she hadn't gone through the back entrance as she usually did, this meant she had to go through the sitting room. And, that, of course, meant interaction with Belinda and Estelle, the two creatures she loathed to call stepsisters. If Elois had any virtues (and Finley was pretty confident she didn't) it was that she wasn't so damnably stupid as her two offspring.

"Oh, look, it's Cinderfin!" Estelle called from her place lounging on a chaise. Finley rolled her eyes. Cinderfin was an unfortunate nickname that had developed after Elois had pulled her out of her schooling in Dalaran. The two were pitiably proud of the nickname they had made to taunt her. Finley had given up trying to tell them that she was a frost mage.

"Cinderfin, you're an _hour_ late_." _Belinda complained, sitting up. "I'm hungry, Ainsley left _hours _ago."

"Oh, I'm dreadfully sorry." Finley hissed as she came into view. "You poor thing, do you mean there wasn't someone waiting on you hand and foot for a _whole hour? _It's a miracle you survived, you sniveling little-"

"Finley!" Elois barked, entering the room behind her. "You will absolutely not speak to my daughters such a way, lest you wish to be deprived of the roof over your head."

Finley bit her cheek to withhold a disdainful comment, knowing better after five years than to sass the woman who held the key to her freedom. "Of course." She said stiffly. Elois gave her a long look, and then pointed to the thick mahogany doors that led to the kitchen.

"I expect dinner to be prepared within the hour." She gave a contemptuous glance down at Finley's feet. "And I assume that you'll be cleaning the carpet as well." Her stepdaughter looked down with dismay to see that she had neglected to remove her boots before entering the house, leaving a trail of greasy footprints all down the entrance way and the sitting room. She bit her lip to refrain from cursing and stomped towards the kitchen, throwing open the heavy door with a crash, and making sure to rattle the pots and pans as loudly as possible.

"What happened to your face, Cinderfin?" Estelle asked with a snicker. Finley didn't bother to look up from where she was crouched on the floor, scrubbing out the marks her heavy boots had made.

"Accident." She said shortly. But the two wouldn't let up- it was like the eyebrow incident all over again.

"Well, I can't say it makes you look worse. That would be impossible." Belinda sneered. Finley frowned and scrubbed harder at her footprint. Getting it off hardwoods was easy. The carpet? Not so much.

"It's amazing how someone is as ugly as you, Cinders." Estelle said, and Finley took a deep breath.

"Must be from doing a man's job. Who would want to court an engineer?" Finley took another deep, measured breath;_ happy thoughts, happy thoughts._

"And you spend all your time in the company of men. It doesn't lead people to think good things, Cinders." Finley consoled herself by thinking of how she spit in their soup and rubbed the rolls on the kitchen floor.

"But don't worry, Cinderfin. That just means you get to spend the rest of your life with us. Wouldn't that make you happy? You'd get to clean fireplaces forever!" Finley gritted her teeth. The stain was out of the carpet, but she still scrubbed harder, pretending the stain was Estelle's perfect little arrogant face. In passing, she had often spoken to Ainsley, the maid who worked for the house during the day, and she described receiving much of the same treatment from the terrible two once they arrived home from 'finishing school'. But at least the woman could go home to a loving family. For Finley it never ended. The stream of insults briefly halted, however as Elois stepped into the room.

"Finley, we are out of moonberry juice." She said, withdrawing a coin purse from her robe. "I would like you to pick up more." Finley nodded, rising from her knees to take the money. Elois withheld it for a moment to give her a warning.

"I trust you will return within a reasonable time period." She said, her hard cobalt eyes trained on the younger woman. Finley sighed and snatched the purse.

"Aye ma'am," She said tiredly, eager to leave the house and the sisters behind.

Finley didn't quite know whether Elois was better or worse than her two petty daughters. On the one hand, Finley was grateful that she didn't receive the same barrage of insults from her as well. As superficial and rude as Belinda and Estelle were, even Finley couldn't tune out all the insults after a while, and some did get under her skin. However, it was also Elois who could get to her very core with the cruelest of barbs. It was Elois who pulled her out of schooling, who could make her feel like a pitiful ant at her feet.

Worst of all, Elois, while claiming to have loved her father, bore some strange grudge against her long deceased mother. And apparently, Finley in her eyes was practically her clone. Finley remembered when she was younger, barely ten, she had been so excited to meet this lady-friend her father told her all about. She decided that she would show her all around the estate, introduce her to the animals and all of her favorite places. Things didn't go quite as planned. As soon as Malbur led her inside and introduced her to Finley, her mouth had tightened in dislike. _She looks just like Aindri, _she had commented in a choked sort of voice. Malbur didn't pick up on the negative tone in her voice, and agreed, his eyes shining. But Finley did, and that was when she had the first sinking feeling that this wouldn't exactly be quite so nice as she expected it to be. Between that and her pinching, whiny daughters, Finley's opinion was set in stone by the end of the night.

After the marriage when she was eleven, her opinion had only grown worse. Elois wanted to change her, wanted her to stop running wild with the local kids, and to start acting like a lady. Finley responded using some words she had heard older kids use, but didn't know what they meant. Elois slapped her, and she had hidden in the barn for the rest of the evening, until her father coaxed her out with the promise of a trip to Stormwind. It wasn't until she was twelve until she heard Elois' accusations that Malbur treated Finley far better than her own daughters.

After Malbur died in a bandit raid while surveying his lands, Elois and Finley had come to something of a brief compromise. For a short tenure, the woman treated her as though she was not some monster she loathed to look at, but rather a valued stepdaughter. She held Finley as she cried until her voice was gone and her eyes couldn't leak anymore. She allowed her to stay in bed past noon, and even cooked her favorite meals for her. But it all changed again in an instant. One moment, Elois was cleaning out her late husbands study, and the next all her animosity towards Finley had returned in full. Suddenly, she was ordered to stop whining and get back to her chores. The terrible two didn't have chores, of course; they were enrolled in a fine finishing school where they would learn all the proper manners in order to make a fine match someday. Meanwhile, Elois wrote to Dalaran, canceling Finley's studies. It had been quite the spat when she had found out, and Finley could still feel the blood trickling down her lip and the ache in her cheek. And then, the woman had the gall to taunt her by openly using magic in front of her.

Finley raked a frustrated hand through her hair as she entered the local tavern/inn. She sometimes wondered whether she would ever be free of her wretched family.

"Is that...Finley! It's been a while, I hardly recognized you!" Naelle Sparfeld called from across the room, ducking artfully around her patrons. Finley smiled; if there was ever a person who could cheer you up, it was Naelle, with her short stature and ever present grin.

"A week is hardly enough to change a person," Finley remarked. Naelle frowned, examining her face.

"It is when it looks like you got into a fight with a boxcutter." She responded, turning her friends face this way and that to see what the extent of the damage was. "What, did you call Caldon a fairy again?" Finley laughed and shook her head.

"No, no, I learnt my lesson there." She said, and Naelle nodded.

"Good. Fairies simply aren't _built _like that." She said with a small smile. Finley repressed a shudder. How anyone could be attracted to an egotistical prick like him was an a mystery to her, yet Naelle, Estelle and Belinda- amongst other girls in town- served to baffle her. "So what was it?"

"Er, let's call it a failure to communicate with terrible results."

"Tulaan couldn't read the plans?"

"Right." Naelle giggled- it wasn't an uncommon occurrence.

"So _that's _what we heard. There's a betting pool started, you know. I think you just made Dominic a pauper." Finley glanced at the dark-haired boy sitting in the far corner, his hands wrapped around a half full mug.

"Dom barely has two coppers to rub together. What's he doing betting on anything?" She questioned. Naelle laughed and waved a hand.

"You know him, he's always convinced it's his lucky day." She said, rolling her honey-brown eyes. Finley snorted, leaning against the counter.

"Sure." For a self-proclaimed rogue, that wasn't a trait he had a wealth of. Nor common sense apparently. She turned her head to glance at Naelle.

"But he got that stuff for your mom before, right?" She asked quietly. Almost immediately, Naelle's face stiffened and she focused entirely on wiping out the inside of a glass.

"Yes." She said shortly, concentrating solely on the mug. Finley nodded and glanced down at her scuffed feet. The two might have been friends since they were both crawling, but she learned that there were things that Naelle didn't talk about, the least of which was her mother. It was a sore topic for the barmaid, she knew. A year ago, her mother had fallen sick, and the disease had set in quickly. Few local healers had the expertise to cure her, and those who did charged quite a pretty penny to do so- a penny they didn't have. Naelle worked hard all day and most of the night, but as her home's only source of income, there wasn't much she could put aside for that.

This was where Dominic came in. Quite frankly, the man didn't posses the traits that made a decent rogue; these strange feelings of guilt and compassion kept cropping up. It didn't bode well for his future career. In any case, he felt indebted to the Sparfelds; Naelle's mother took him in like a son when he showed up on her doorstop, scruffy, dirty, poor and alone at the age of thirteen. So he utilized his shady contacts to find medicine and potions; he may not be able to help heal her, but he could at least make her more comfortable.

"Well, be sure to tell me his reaction to losing," Finley finally said, and Naelle's face relaxed into an easy smile.

"It might be hard to describe, but I'll try." She responded, throwing the rag onto the counter. "How'd you free yourself from the madhouse, anyway?" Finley grimaced.

"Not free yet, just running errands." She muttered, pulling the coin purse out of her belt. "Her highness requires moonberry juice." Naelle nodded, dropping below the counter to rummage through the cupboards.

"So how has she been the last few days?" She called, her voice muffled through the wood.

"Insufferable, as per usual." Finley said, leaning lazily against the surface, surveying the crowded room. Not remarkably, it was crammed with familiar faces. It had been a while since she had spoken to these people, who would once scold her for running through their fields or slip her a sweet with a wink. Now it was as though no one recognized her. She supposed it was what happened when one was shut in a house cleaning all the time.

"One cask of the finest moonberry juice." Naelle announced, setting the purplish beverage on the wood. Finley nodded, dropping her silver on the counter. Naelle counted it quickly before depositing it into her cashbox. After, she hopped backwards onto the bar, seated, and gave Finley a quick hug.

"Don't be a stranger now, okay?" She warned, giving her a meaningful look. Finley smiled and nodded, returning the gesture.

"Believe me, I'll try." She responded, releasing her before picking up the liquid. Naelle looked as though she was going to say something more, but a commotion in the far corner caught her attention, where two drunken out-of-towners had gotten into a scuffle.

"Duty calls." She said, rolling her eyes. "But I had better see you soon." Finley nodded and saluted as the blonde began to fight her way through the crowd.

Later that night, Finley let out a heavy sigh, leaning up against the closed door to her bedroom. How a day could last so long, she never knew. Elois had deemed she spent too long on her errand, and she had to listen to that lecture for what felt like hours. Then the twins had wanted to bathe, so there was a matter of lugging all the water upstairs, and then back down again. She also, though Elois didn't know it, had to complete the girls' schoolwork, because in their minds, who needed history?

This was the least offensive part though, seeing as she didn't mind and perhaps enjoyed doing so. She kind of wondered what the irony was about the girls not caring about the Stonemason's cause or riot. History does have that tendency to repeat itself, and they weren't helping.

Holding the papers to her side with her elbow, she blindly searched for her lamp in the dark with her right hand. Once it was in her grasp, she summoned a small flame to the tip of her index finger and lit the wick, illuminating the stairway before her. When she was fourteen, she had expressed the desire to never have to sleep on the same floor as her stepfamily. Lo and behold, wishes _did _come true, and she was moved down to the cellar. The steps creaked as she moved down them, letting out eery cries. At the very least, it was a seperate room from the root cellar and wine cellar. She opened the door and set the wine on her desk, willing it a little brighter so it illuminated her whole room.

For what it was, she had altered it to her tastes. Her small bed was in the corner, flanked by two oak nighttables that were strewn with books. A large desk that once sat in her old bedroom stood against the wall. It was similarly filled with papers and schematics and quills. On the opposite wall was a wardrobe and dresser, where all of her girlier items lay; brushes and clothes and make up and the like, not that she ever had an occasion to use the last one. Most importantly, on a third wall sat four bookcases. She had Caldon help her lug them down one day, much to the delight of Estelle and Belinda, who became suddenly interested in learning. They were absolutely crammed with all sorts of books, from history to language to magic tomes and political manifestos. She had snuck them from her fathers study upstairs, and taken all that Elois planned to discard.

Setting the papers on her desk, she surveyed her collection, running a finger across their bindings, searching for a title appropriate to the assignment. In quick succession, she plucked _A History of Stormwind, The Stonemason Riots _and _The Origins of the Defias Brotherhood _from the shelves_. _She paused as she came to the end of the last one, where a picture frame lay. She sighed as she picked it up; it was a drawing that Mitras had given her of her parents in the Third War. They were obviously tired and worn, but were smiling broadly, their arms around each other. It was her most prized possession, and she made a point of looking at it every night before bed.

She gently traced the lines of her mother's face with the tip of her finger. Even weighed down with armor she was beautiful. Mitras had told her that after she escaped the wreckage of her home in Lordaeron, she had disguised herself as a boy to join the expedition led by Jaina Proudmoore, and eventually get her revenge against the Scourge that destroyed her family. Malbur had been her lieutenant, and through a serious of events that would be looked back on as cmoical, disovered her gender. Unfortunately, so too did the rest of the company. They were in no position to send her off, so the captain reluctantly allowed her to stay, a choice she imagined he appreciated once Aindri saved his life.

She smiled sadly. What would it have been like to know this woman? To have her brush her hair, to talk to her about her embarrassing first crush on Caldon, how she felt so awkward and ugly next to the other girls at school, to discuss her political stances, to have her congratulate her on her grades? Finley's lower lip trembled as she replaced the picture on the shelf. She a hard swallow, she rubbed her eyes furiously, sniffling. It was no use wondering, she told herself firmly, ignoring the ache in her heart. It wouldn't help anything.

Still sniffling somewhat, she dropped the books on the desk and rolled up her sleeves. Besides, she had work to do.

* * *

><p>End chapter!<p>

Sorry that this took so long to get out, I was away for a few days, and then I got really stupidly sick. Sinus infections suck. A ton.

But, all in all, I managed to release this. Phew. It's mainly an exposition chapter, and I hope you like all the characters. Most of them are in now, save one or two. Next chapter is where the plot starts! :)

(also, I cannot write a Draenei accent to save my life. Actually, accents in general. As a novice musician, I'm kind of ashamed of that, haha.)

**Important: **I need the readers' input on this. I tried to make this really funny, but that just doesn't seem to be the direction this story really wants to go. I've tried to wrangle stories in before, and it's never worked out well. However, I _do _have the outline of a new plot, and I really, really like it. It's not going to be dark by any means, but a little less outright parody and a little more light-hearted adventure, if you know what I mean. It feels weird though, to still be retaining Cinderella elements. If you're observant (or rather, not so clueless as I am,) you'll see hints of the new plot in this chapter.

However, my question is this. Should I rename this story _Sticks and Stones_, and take the parody tag off? Or would you rather see the next few chapters before you decide? Will you continue reading if I do so? If you answer any of these, thank you!

Also, seeing as I keep mentioning her parents, and hopefully piqued your interest, because if the story goes in the direction I'm hoping one'll be important, would you guys like to see a story about them, Mitras, Ralen/ the Third War? It would also include Elois.

Thanks if you read that wall o' text! All of your input is valued :)

Till next time!

-Penguin


	3. Chapter 3

Psh, here I was moping/ panicing about a lack of reviews, begin convinced that I was an awful writer and that I shamed the craft by even touching a keyboard, and lo and behold, I get four wonderful reviews! Thank you guys, especially for the constructive crit. I appreciate all of it!

And as for concern about chapter two, I agreed with the critique, and have decided to at somepoint (hopefully soon!) to revise it and split up a lot of that info-dump into later chapters, as well as that jolt-y kind of switch from 14-year old Fin/Funeral scene to the current day one.

So, once again, thank you to my wonderful reviews (who read through my rambling author's notes!) : .TwilightXx, Maginisha, Kuestro, and Blood of Sanguinius. You lot are the bee's knees :)

* * *

><p>The next morning, Finley was jostled awake none too gently by an over-excited Belinda. She twitched beneath her blankets, groaning, as the younger girl continued to shake her violently, halting any more sleep she planned on getting.<p>

"Cinders, get _up!" _At this, Finley rolled over and sat up, yawning and running a hand through her mussed dark hair. Belinda was sitting on the end of her bed, looking torn between a frown and an excited grin. Finley sighed and reached over to her night table, searching for a pocket watch. She couldn't possibly be late _again _could she? She knew she wasn't the most timely girl, even by a mage's standards, but she seemed to be making a habit of this. Flipping open the lid, she noted the shorter hand pointing at the eight. She closed it with a snap and gave an inquiring look to the blonde staring expectantly at her.

"It's Saturday. You don't normally want to eat until nine-thirty." She said, but Belinda shook her head, light brown curls flying around her face. Her blue eyes were shining with excitement, and Finley had to take a moment to remind herself that this was Belinda, a petty, spoiled brat with a penchant for pinching, not some child excited by the prospect of a treat.

"Today's different, Cinders." She exclaimed, grabbing her stepsisters arm with five well manicured- and thus piercing- fingers. "There's going to be a ball!"

Finley of course, failed to see anything different about this at all. There was always some noble holding a ball for some silly reason or another, just so people with more money than brains could try and prove that they had more wealth than anyone else. Incredibly tacky, she decided, and she had no interest in being a part of it. Not that she was invited anyway.

"And this concerns me...why?" She questioned. Belinda wasn't exactly known for running to her squealing when there was news or gossip or some such. Belinda let out a long suffering sigh, crossing her arms and pouting her lips, a move that she apparently thought made her seem more attractive and had taken to doing constantly.

"Do I have to explain _everything _to you Cinders?" She complained. _Like why you have to say Cinders every sentence? _Finley mused, smirking slightly. Belinda's look told her she was certainly not amused. "It's not _just _a ball, it's going to be the _biggest _social event of my life! It's for the prince for his birthday, and every _eligible _young woman is invited! "

"...Yeah, still not seeing why you had to come tell me that." Finley finally said, letting loose another yawn and beginning to let her head descend towards the pillow. She was stopped by Belinda grabbing her tightly by the upper arms. She stared intently at Finley, her blue eyes unblinking as they gaze intensely into Finley's own. Finley, for her part, was confused and most definitely uncomfortable. She wasn't exactly sure what this stare meant, but she did wish that it would end.

"_Every. Eligible. Young. Woman. _Cinders, don't you know what this means?" She exclaimed, breathless. Finley thought of some possible options. Fantabulous slumber party? Someone's made a move to many on taken women? "A wife! He's looking for a wife!" A faraway look came over Belinda as she daydreamed of luxury and crowns, jewels and more people to order about than just Cinders and Ainsley (who became the accompanying 'Sootgirl. Soot for short.)

Finley, for her part, was trying to remember what she knew about the boy. Surprisingly, considering her political inclinations, she actually knew very little about the royals as people, only the extent of their power and what they'd done with it. (The king, for his part, had gotten a very poor grade.). Frankly, the only thing she knew was that he was somewhere around her age, and was involved in something of a power struggle in IF a few years back. However, that had been when Elois yanked her from school, so she hadn't payed much mind to it as it happened. She made a point to ask Mitras about it later that day when she escaped to work.

"Oh, so he's too lazy to find a girl himself, and insists that everyone be paraded in front of him. Fantastic." She finally commented, her words biting. Hey, she may not have known him, but she had a reputation of cynicism to keep up. Belinda threw her a disgusted look as she was interrupted from her fantasies of flowing gowns and courtiers abound bowing to kiss her perfect hand.

"Shut up, Cinders." She snapped, huffing. Finley shrugged. Not an uncommon reaction to anything she said, she was used to it. However the girl didn't leave her room, and Finley was still confused as to why she came down in the first place. Normally the two girls avoided Finley's quarters like the plague, complaining of must and gross bugs. Finley, of course, didn't mind this in the least. She wasn't exactly interested in interacting with her step-siblings more than necessary anyway. However, she was still quite curious as to why Belinda was telling her this.

"So, are you inviting me or something?" She asked. Not exactly a move she'd expect from Belinda, and she couldn't say she was actually interested in attending, but if this was meant as a gesture to open up sisterly dialogue, who was she to refuse? The look on Belinda's face started off as shocked, then turned confused, until it finally settled on a conceited, smug kind of scorn.

"Of course not Cinders." She finally giggled, practicing that annoying behind-the-hand technique that all her friends seemed to utilize. Finley always felt the urge to tell them that it was laughter, not flatulence, and there was no need to hide it, but managed to restrain herself. "Estelle, Irielle and I are going into Stormwind to shop- there's no time to waste, you know- and need someone to help us carry our things."

Sisterly gesture? Hardly. Packhorse duty? Of course.

"Sorry to disappoint, but I have to work today," Finley responded airily, throwing off her covers and swinging her bare legs over the side of the bed. Belinda "hmph'd" slightly when the bed shifted due to the absence of her weight as she stood.

"Oh, don't worry. We already sent Ainsley to tell Mitral that you wouldn't be there today." She said with a smile that didn't exactly read as friendly. Finley paused in her painstaking decision of which oil stained shirt to wear today to grimace. Sometimes they were determined to torture her, weren't they?

"It's Mitras, not Mitral." She finally said with a sigh, replacing the shirts and reaching instead for a blue tunic and gray breeches. Not that it mattered in the long run, but she took a moment to add another day to her so-called 'prison sentence'. Most of her salary went straight to Elois, to help with the house's upkeep, even though Malbur's estate was sizable enough so that even his great grandchildren wouldn't have to work. However, Mitras did set aside a little each week for her 'Dalaran Fund', so that eventually she could re-enroll in school one day without- Elois's permission.

Belinda, meanwhile, had risen from the bed, straightened her blue skirts and moved to the doorway. "We're leaving in an hour, and you still have chores, Cinders. Better hop to."

xxxxx

Finley didn't think that in her nineteen years of life she had _ever _seen Stormwind this busy. Concerning the always bustling city, that was saying something. The event was on short notice, only two weeks from now, and it seemed the whole female population, young and old, short and tall, slim and fat had emerged from the woodwork to descend upon every apparel shop in the area. They were vicious too, shoving each other, snarling rude comments to one another and quite a few toe-stompings. Finley was not impressed, and had jabbed more than one person out of her personal bubble with a well placed ice barb.

It was mid-afternoon now, and things had calmed quite a bit since the morning. By that she meant that she could at least take two steps without feeling uncomfortably close to another person. At this point, she was convinced that group was simply running around for the sake of running around, flitting in and out of shops without buying anything. While Finley loved finery as much as the next girl, there was only so much oohing and ahing she could manage without feeling sick.

Thankfully, though, they had just stepped into a promising looking tailoring shop on a secluded road near the canals. The owner ushered them in quickly and slammed the door shut behind them, watching warily for any crazed shoppers who might throw themselves in her way. Before that day, Finley would have been skeptical on that happening. Now, she wasn't so sure.

The owner and her staff visibly relaxed and became markedly more pleasant once the door was locked, offering the group, which consisted of Belinda, Estelle, and Elois, along with Irielle Avatten, seats. Finley was the first to take this offer, sinking into the cushion gratefully with a loud sigh, ignoring any dirty looks from Elois. The others followed, though much more politely and gracefully than she did.

The master tailor, a middle aged woman by the name of Imalin had the look of a someone who was not given to idle chatter when there was work to be done. So it was that the expression on her face soured a bit once the small group had settled down and began to gossip about what they had already seen throughout the day. However, she was also looking to make a profit, so she quickly waved over one of her apprentices with a pot of tea, while handing them pattern books.

"These," She explained, "are some of our more popular dress designs. Very beautiful and appropriate to the event. I'm sure you'll find something to your liking there." Belinda and Estelle fell upon the books squealing, an action that seemed to put off Imalin for a moment. She covered the reaction quickly, however, and continued on, her eyebrows slightly raised.

"We also have a wide variety of samples, if that's what you'd prefer. We can alter them to fit your daughters, ma'am, seeing as the time constraints would make four new dresses a rather impossible task." She explained, gesturing to racks full of colorful dresses against the far wall. Elois pursed her lips for a moment, and then nodded.

"This would be best." That was the only encouragement the girls needed to practically attack the rack, pulling out each garment with renewed enthusiasm. Estelle disappeared into a changing first, and Finley caught a glimpse of yellow silk, followed by Belinda in bright pink, and lastly Irielle in green.

"I think this may work well on you, always a very pretty color." Imalin said, starting towards Finley, a silvery, flowing dress in hand. Finley tilted her head, considering this. She supposed trying _one_ gown on couldn't hurt, and this one did look rather pretty. However, before the attendant could reach her, she was intercepted by Elois's pale arm.

"She will not be attending the ball." She said coolly, and Finley felt the familiar pain in her chest cavity as her cheeks warmed up. Imalin looked somewhat confused, glancing in between the two women, and Finley could practically read the thoughts on her face. Is she related? A servant? Finley crossed her arms and stared determinedly into a corner.

"Step daughters." She muttered past the lump in her throat. "They're the best sort of hired help around." She couldn't see the look on the older womens' faces, nor did she care, though she could imagine what Elois's look meant for her later.

"As you can see, this is why she is not accompanying us." Elois said after a brief, awkward silence, her voice as cool and smooth as ice. "It would surely reflect poorly on our family." Finley tried to ignore the hot tears prickling the back of her eyes, but they were insistent. She ducked her head to avoid showing them, and wiped them away with her sleeve, determined not to let Elois see her cry.

She was saved by the reentry of the three girls, now clad in wildly different ballgowns.

"I like it, mother." Estelle said sounding pleased, stepping up to the mirror and turning, looking over her shapely curves. The dress didn't quite scream propriety, with a portrait neckline that fell far to low to be considered modest The only sleeves to speak of were barely-there ribbon-esque strips that hung off her upper arms. From there it clung close to her, leaving remarkably little to the imagination.

"No." Was the only word out of Elois's mouth when Estelle looked to her in askance. "Absolutely not."

First Estelle tried pouting, crossing her arms across her bust. "Please mama? It looks amazing, doesn't it?" Elois narrowed her eyes, never one to back down to anyone.

"It does not. Now take it off." She hissed. Estelle moved on to stamping her foot in a huff.

"Don't be a prude mama. I'll be the center of attention, won't I?" She asked, taking another long look at her figure in the tall gilded mirror. Elois's voice was harsh and stern, the kind Finley learned not to argue with.

"For looking like a harlot. I will not have such things said about my family. Now remove it, or we go home with nothing." She snapped, and Finley couldn't help but let a small, mirthless smile creep onto her face. It was nice to not be on the receiving end of that voice for once. Unfortunately, Estelle found nothing to smile about as she stormed back to the dressing rooms.

"What are you smiling about Cinders? At least I'm going instead of spending my night in the ashes." She sneered, and the smile slid off her face. Imalin's eyes widened as she looked to Elois to reprimand her daughter for the insult, but her cobalt eyes were staring nonchalantly ahead, where Belinda had taken her place in front of the mirror.

The gown was a creation like no other, made of layers and rolls and tiers of horrifically pink fabric, ending up with a diameter the size of two grown men. Two giant bows sat on her hips where the fabric flared out, giving it a somewhat comical effect. The garment was slightly less offensive on top, but that may have just been compared what it was paired with. It had a sweetheart neckline, and elaborate silver embroidery edging it. Two puffy sleeves completed the gown.

Finley quirked an eyebrow at Imalin, as though to ask why the dress was even in the store to begin with. The woman simply shrugged and shook her head. There was some clientele that she couldn't even begin to understand, and she wasn't entirely sure she wanted to.

"Do you like i-" Belinda began, but her mother wouldn't even let her finish.

"You are eighteen, Belinda, not seven." She intoned, her expression extraordinarily nonplussed. "Do not try my patience."

Belinda sighed but dutifully stepped off the stage, dropping into a chair in a dramatic huff, somewhat obscured by the clouds of fabric that flew up around her. Irielle was the last to look in the reflection, but was ignored in favor of other issues. She blinked, her delicate hands holding up yards of spring green fabric as Imalin began talking budgets and prices with Elois, Belinda complained about her mother being mean and how this was entirely unfair, and Estelle emerged from the dressing room, still disgruntled and wanting to make sure the world knew it. They all quieted for a moment as she coughed lightly.

"Oh!" She said, not expecting her cough to attract that much attention. "I was just wondering whether-"

"Awful." Estelle sneered immediately. "You look like a bush." Belinda voiced her agreement not long after, and the girl looked crestfallen. Finley raised an eyebrow. She, for one, thought the girl looked quite nice in it, and wasn't entirely sure where the hostility towards Irielle was coming from. She thought they were friends. She debated on voicing her own opinion of the garment, but decided against, seeing how this day was already going.

"Finley, I'm hungry." Belinda complained, mind already on other matters, namely her stomach. "Go get me some food, okay?"

"Me too," Estelle chimed in. "Go get us all some food. I'm sure you can manage that, can't you?" Finley gave a long suffering sigh and heaved herself from the seat, walking over to fiddle with the locks. Imalin looked as though she wanted to protest food being brought into her store, but finally just sighed and shook her head. She had given up with this lot. With any luck, they'd ruin a dress, and have to pay for that along with their intended purchases.

The last thing Finley heard was a faint "Thank you!" from Irielle's lyrical voice as she shut the door, and the she was freed into the bright sunlight. She blinked in the natural light, letting her eyes adjust. There was a fruit stand a few stores down, but she bypassed it. She supposed that it would have been an acceptable snack for them, but she couldn't quite go back just yet. Instead, her wandering took her past the Mage Quarter, where she stood and stared longingly for a bit. She then doubled back to the Trade District, allowing herself to be carried by the current of the crows, soaking in all the noises and people and smells.

This was one of her favorite places as a child; she would love to look out at the bustling scene in awe from her special perch atop her father's shoulders. She would be amazed by all the sights he would point out to her, whether it was the bearded dwarves to warriors in glinting armor or gnomes with their strange machinery. Her favorites were the rare Night Elves who came to the city. They fascinated her, with their long ears, glowing eyes and oddly toned skin. She would excitedly point them out when she saw them, and her father would laugh his booming laugh, though, looking back, she wasn't entirely sure that the elves appreciated it. The day would invariably end with the two sitting on the side of the cobblestone street, eating cinnamon buns that Malbur proclaimed the best in Azeroth.

She smiled at the memory, and glanced around the district, wondering if the bakery still stood. She had to fight against the crowd, nearly stepping on a few gnomes in the process, but reached the other side of the square. Her efforts were rewarded as her eyes fell on a homey looking building with a large glass window and aging sign naming it as "Lastral's". She couldn't stop from grinning as she hurried up the steps.

For a moment as she stepped inside the warmly lit interior, she just savored the smells that wound their way into her nose; warm bread, fresh croissants and gooey fruit sauce. There were few other patrons in the store, just a man she vaguely recognized from the cheese shop nearby, a young blond man, a night elf woman studying the pastry selection and a female gnome munching happily away on a puff pastry.

"Can I help you dear?" a voice called, and Finley glanced to see a matronly woman wiping her floury fingers on an apron. Finley was aware of how silly she probably looked, with the ear-to-ear grin that she couldn't wipe off her face, but it wasn't going anywhere soon. She remembered the woman from every trip she took, she was always very friendly and made a fantastic cannoli. She may have been a bit grayer now, but she was most definitely the same woman. Realizing the woman was staring at her with a bemused look on her face, she shook herself out of her stupor.

"I-uh, do you still have cinnamon buns?" She asked hopefully. The older woman's face relaxed into a smile.

"Of course we do, I've a batch fresh out of the oven." She said, smiling. "I take it you'd like one?" Finley nodded eagerly, and the woman patted her on the shoulder, leaving floury finger prints.

"Well then, you have a seat and I'll be over with it in a moment. It'll be two silver, if you wouldn't mind, dear." She said, smiling. Finley obediently took a seat at a corner table, pulling out her coin. As promised, the woman returned a moment later, setting the bun in front of her on a blue plate.

She picked it up and took a small bite, intent on making this experience last as long as possible, and savored the wonderful cinnamon-y buttery taste.

"I've heard those are the best in the world." A voice commented from the opposite side of the table. Finley opened her eyes to see the young man she saw earlier smiling at her. She placed the bun back on the plate and smiled back.

"You sound as though you have a reason to doubt that." She said light-heartedly. He shook his head with a laugh.

"No, no. I've just never verified it." he explained, and she gave him a look of mock-horror.

"Blasphemy!" She declared, and pushed her plate towards him. "Here, try a piece." He obliged, breaking off a piece. As he chewed thoughtfully, she took a moment to study him. He may have been dressed in relatively plain-clothes that branded him as a commoner, but something seemed...off to her. He was entirely too clean, for one. There was hardly a speck of dirt marring his appearance, and his clothing looked freshly sewn. She tilted her head, suddenly interested in this man's story.

"You're right," he said, finished. "I don't think anything can best that." She nodded, grabbing a piece for herself.

"Told you." She responded, before popping another bite in her mouth and giving him a thumbs up. "The best bakery, ever." He bobbed his head in agreement.

"I'll have to come here more often, then." He stated.

"I'd settle for moving in." She said, laughing. "Where are you from, anyway?" He blinked.

"Redridge," he said quickly, "I'm visiting my uncle, he lives here." She raised an eyebrow, but decided to let it go.

"Shame you ended up here now, though," She commented, "What with the city being turned on its side by this whole ball extravaganza. I don't think I've ever seen the place so crowded."

"Oh? What's happening?" He asked, and she leaned back with a sigh.

"Apparently the prince is having a grand ball," She said, rolling her eyes. "And every girl has interpreted that as a personal gesture asking for her hand in marriage." His eyebrows moved upward as he gulped.

"Oh." He answered, tapping his fingers on the table. "That must be awkward for him." Finley made a face and he looked at her inquiringly. She shrugged.

"Forgive me if I don't pity a boy who's had everything handed to him on a silver platter." She replied, working on tearing off the edges of the cinnamon bun so that the center would be saved for last, missing the transition on his face as he first looked affronted, and then interested, leaning forward a bit.

"I'm sure he can't be terrible." He reasoned. "Do a lot of people think that way?" Finley shrugged once again, wiping her fingers on a napkin.

"I'm not really sure." She said, and then gave him a smile, not wanting him to be scared off by her attitude. "Don't mind me, really. I'm just incredibly cynical. I've been told it's not an attractive quality, but I just can't seem to make it go away."

He returned the gesture reassuringly. "We need all types to make the world turn." He said, eying the center of the bun still remaining on the plate. She nudged it towards him.

"It's alright, I was taught that sharing is caring." She said, and after a moment of hesitation, he broke off another small piece in the lull in their conversation. He glanced at her sidelong as she finished it off.

"So, are you planning on going to this event?" He asked. She blinked at the question. She thought she had made her disdain for the idea fairly clear, but apparently not.

"Well, no. Duty takes priority I suppose," She said. She wondered what the etiquette was concerning the remaining sugar left on one's fingers in polite company -which she was quite sure this young man was- and decided against licking it, instead opting for a napkin. Then her hand stilled. _Duty. Crap. _How long had she been gone? More than an hour, she could guess that much.

She stood abruptly, pushing back her chair, resulting in a confused look overtaking his face.

"Hey, it was really nice meeting you, but I've got to- Do you think you could put four pastries in a box?" She asked, switching addressees mid sentence. "Yes, anything's fine. Just whatever you can grab first."

He stood, concern evident on his open face. She suspected he wasn't one for hiding emotions. "Are you quite all right, miss?" He asked, and she nodded, tapping her foot impatiently as the woman behind the counter tied the string to keep the container closed. She desperately hoped that they were too caught up in the dresses to notice her extended absence.

"Yes,yes, just late." She said, grabbing her purchase while digging all the silver she had left in her pockets on the counter. "Thanks!" She mentioned to the baffled woman behind the table, who swept the coin into her apron.

"It was nice meeting you! Really!" She called, backing out of the doorway, leaving a bewildered young man in her wake.

xxxxxx

"Pastries, Cinders? Really?" Estelle chided, holding up a cream puff to her inspection. "Do you _want _me to get fat before the ball? I can't even believe you sometimes." She gave a long-suffering sigh, and carelessly dropped the offending food item back into the box, turning to admire her purchase instead.

Thankfully, her absence had largely gone unnoticed. By the time she had returned, the two sisters had settled on deciding what to wear, and were now examining the supply of masks that the owner had ordered in once she heard tell of the event- it was a masquerade after all. Irielle, however was still torn between a scarlet and bright yellow.

"I told you, Elle. The yellow one is best." Estelle snapped when she saw the girl debating by the window. Finley raised an eyebrow at this statement; hadn't she heard Estelle, a natural blonde, complain about not being able to wear the shade without looking awful before? "Even _Cinders _can see that. Right, Cinders?" She asked, giving her a meaningful look.

Ah. So sabotage was the name of the game. Finley paused to consider her options. If she agreed, then she would perhaps be relieved of a few snide comments, and hopefully Estelle would let her absence slide. The opposite would likely happen if she did not. '_Yellow' _ was on the tip of her tongue when she made the mistake of glancing at Irielle's guileless face, turned to her with a smile.

She never really understood how the sisters and Irielle Avatten were friends. Irielle was all the things she imagined that ladies were taught to be; gracious, kind, demure and caring, a stark contrast to her friends' catty behavior. She always had a kind word for anyone, even if it was a 'hello', 'goodbye' or 'thank you' to Finley was she visited. Finley sighed, _yellow _still stuck in her throat. She was perfect, with a perfect life, and she _really _wanted to hate Irielle for it. However, that would be asking the impossible. She was too damn _nice_.

"Red." She said, noting the narrowing of Estelle's eyes. She really hoped her step-sister had a short memory. She didn't want to have to deal with this later.

xxxxxxx

"Get Elle's things, Cinders." Belinda ordered, and Finley was awakened rather rudely from a delightful little nap she had decided to take on the carriage ride home. She blinked a few times to bring everything into focus, and then glanced out the foggy window. Sure enough, they had returned to Goldshire and sat outside the Avatten Estate, where a well-dressed man waited for them. Upon seeing him, Irielle's face split into a wide grin and she leapt from the carriage, unassisted by the driver, and threw her arms around her father. Finley frowned and averted her eyes at the sight of him winging her in a circle.

"Papa!" She cried happily. "We didn't think you'd be home for ages!"

"Business was cut short, blossom." He answered, setting her down as Finley grabbed the other articles of clothing she had bought, as they had done more shopping than just for the ball, from where it was strapped to the back of the carriage. "And I rushed home so I could see my daughter off to the ball."

"That's great! I've so much to tell you, papa." She said, still smiling. He smiled gently back and patted her hair lightly, and then turned his bearded face to Finley as she approached with her things.

"And I can't wait to hear it, pumpkin." He said, giving her a little push towards the entrance of their grand home. "Wait for me inside will you? I'll help Miss Bardolf with your things." She nodded happily and did so, humming a little tune as she waved goodbye to the stepsisters and entered the house.

"How are you, Finley?" He asked, unloading some boxes that she was struggling to carry. She forked them over gratefully, rolling her shoulders a bit. She never imagined shoes would be so heavy.

"Better now," She mumbled, and then added as an afterthought wondering whether it was the right way to address a member of the House of Nobles, "Milord."

"Good," He said absentmindedly. "Home and work treating you well? It was Mitras you work for, correct?" Finley nodded the best she could over the hat box, but he barely seemed to mind the gesture. "Strange fellow, to set up a engineer's shop here, of all places."

"Mm-hmm." Finley responded. She had heard that statement enough to no longer pay it any mind. Mitras said he set up shop here because he saw that he could profit from the gnoll infestation, as well as the decent mining in the region.

"And...your friend, Naelle. Is she well?" He questioned, holding the door open for her. This question threw Finley slightly off. Why in the world would he ask for her? Eyeing him criticaally, she nodded.

"As far as I know," She answered as he led her into a lavish sitting room, furnished with cloth, and furniture of the highest quality one could desire. Finley felt somewhat out of place in her worn, albeit clean, clothing, standing here amongst ornate claw-footed chaise and velvet curtains.

"Place it anywhere," he said with a wave, and she complied, glancing around for the most stable area before setting her load down on a black walnut table between two luxurious couches. When she straightened up, Sir Avatten had advanced towards her, drawing a small drawstring pouch from his belt. Finley raised an eyebrow; did he think to tip her, like a bellhop?

"I have a proposal for you, Miss Bardolf," He began, speaking in hushed tones and placing a hand on her shoulder, steering her towards a quiet hallway, putting Finley on edge, balking. He sighed. "Not of that sort." she relaxed somewhat and followed a bit more willingly, though from her tense posture it was obvious she was still wary.

"Well?" Finley prompted once he shut the door. He rubbed his graying beard thoughtfully. Finley imagined that he must have been quite handsome in his younger days, with his honey colored hair, broad stature and chiseled face. She supposed his money would have been a draw as well.

"My daughter is very...shy." He began, and Finley nodded. She had heard tales from Belinda and Estelle about how silly they thought she looked, stuttering when having to give a presentation or when meeting a stranger. "It's not a trait she revels in. I'm sure you can understand how it pains me to see her so unhappy." Finley nodded again, wondering where this was going.

"As a father, I would like to hear that she had a pleasant time at this event." He continued, "And perhaps even met the man of the hour himself." Finley suddenly knew where this was going and raised her hands to stop him.

"Sir, I wish I could help you, but I'm not going to the ball." She said, and he frowned. "Good luck, though."

"I trust my daughter far more with the likes of you than the women sitting in that carriage right now, Miss Bardolf." He said, and Finley felt like asking why exactly he let them be friends. It was like leaving a lamb with a pack of wolves and hoping they all became the best of friends.

"Look, I like Irielle, and I hope she has a fantastic time. But there is no way for me to attend the ball." She restated, backing away somewhat. Before she could move too far, however, his large hand reached out to encompass her wrist. She started to struggle, but stopped when he plopped the drawstring bag in her hand. It was remarkably heavy, and she had a good guess as to what was inside. Sure enough, when she peered into it's depths, a pile of gold coins glinted back at her. She raised her head to look at Avatten.

"Seventy-five gold." He said earnestly. "And that's only half. If you complete the job, I'll reward you the other." Finley hesitated, wondering exactly what she was getting herself into. She had no means of attending the event, no way of recognizing the prince, especially at a masquerade, and no way to escape the stern gaze of Elois. However, the lure of one hundred and fifty gold tempted her. In combination of what she had saved over the last five years, that would pay for almost half of her tuition in Dalaran. She licked her dry lips, and then sighed, taking the Baron's hand.

"Deal."

xxxxxxxx

Later that night, Finley hummed happily as she scrubbed the used pots- not two actions she would coordinate under any normal circumstances. However, everything seemed to be falling into place for her (and of course, for her acquisition of one hundred and fifty gold.) As she sat beside Estelle at dinner, she listened in on the conversation being had.

Apparently, the three planned to stay the night in Stormwind. They would head in on the afternoon of the ball in order to have the preparations made my profession- hairdressers, makeup artists and the like. They wouldn't return until the following morning, in order to avoid the traffic of all the attendees- leaving Finley with the house to herself. There was still the matter of getting a dress, but she was sure she could figure it out. Perhaps she would filch a lesser-used one from the back of the closets upstairs. Or maybe she would request one from Irielle somehow. It was the least Baron Avatten could do. The girl was curvier than her boyish figure, but it was nothing a few pins couldn't fix. She wasn't aiming for perfection, anyway, just to blend in with the crowd.

She was still humming as she dried her hands. She loved it when a plan came together, especially when that plan brought her closer to Dalaran.

Her reverie was interrupted by a few harsh raps on the door of the service entrance. She paused, throwing the dish rag over her shoulder. It was stormy outside, gusting harshly and raining heavily. Who would be here in this kind of weather. She opened the door to see a darkly cloaked figure. It took her a few moment to recognize the waterlogged creature as Naelle.

"Naelle!" She greeted in surprise after a moment, ushering the shivering girl inside. Her friend was a miserable huddle, shuddering and dripping all over the freshly swept floor.

"Why are you here?" She questioned as the other girl unhooked her cloak. Finley took it from her hand, spreading it over the table to dry.

"I need your help, Fin." She said through chattering teeth. Finley stopped in her work to give her a concerned look.

"Help? With what? Are you okay? What happened?" She asked, the questions falling out on top of one another. She had never known Naelle to be one to ask for help, from when they were children and she was stuck in the upper branches of a tree to the leering sort of men that occasionally accosted her while working. She was a strictly 'I can handle my own problems' sort of girl.

"I'm not in trouble. It's with a...job., per se." she said, glancing down at her interlocked fingers, and then back up at Finley, her worried brown eyes trained on her face. "I trust, you, Fin, you know that right? You know that I would never ask you something if I didn't absolutely need you to?"

"Of course." Finley agreed immediately.

"Well I think need your help with this job." She said, and then took a deep breath and launched into her explanation. "Dom's a rogue, and you know that he resorts to pick pocketing and petty thievery, right? Well he tried to pick-pocket off this one guy- and Finley, he offered him a job. A big one. Except he needs a woman to help him out." Finley crossed her arms, looking skeptical.

"Why? And how big is big?" She questioned, not quite sure if she trusted the sort of people Dominic would ever associate with.

"Five-hundred and fifty hundred gold, Fin. We'd split it of course, about one-eighty each I figure, but subtract the supplies we'll need to do it. But Fin, this could pretty much get you out of here combined with what you have already, you could leave Goldshire and study magic to your hearts' content and-" From the way Naelle was trying to convince her to join, Finley got the feeling she wasn't going to like the objective.

"Wait, wait, wait. Naelle, what is this job?" Finley interrupted, and Naelle cringed.

"Well, we have to go to the ball and-"

"I'm not committing treason, Naelle." Finley snapped. "Or murder or anything of the sort."

"No, no, it's not that. It's just...keys." She said, and Finley raised an eyebrow. "We just have to grab a set of keys."

"What, so someone else can commit treason?" She asked, "And wouldn't someone notice a missing set of keys _in the home of our country's leaders? _I'd rather not have my head on a pike."

"It's nothing to do with them!" Naelle cried, and Finley shushed her sharply. Remanded, she lowered her voice. "It's only to the cellars. They don't want anything to do with politics, just to steal some old jewels down there. And that's where we need you; you showed me this spell once; you used it to make a total copy of something. You could do it again, right?" She pleaded, and Finley had to resist the urge to recoil.

"No. Naelle, I can't. This all sounds incredibly shifty." She said firmly, crossing her arms. "I don't want to be to blame for- or even be remotely involved in- some sort of plot. At all." She turned away from her to lift the cloak off the table, ready to shove it in Naelle's hands and push her out the door, when a delicate hand curled around her upper arm.

"Fin. Please." She pleaded, her eyes welling up with tears. "My mother is doing worse, far worse than she was doing."

Finley hesitated, her hands lost in the wet fabric of the cloak.

"I've talked to so many healers, I can't even number them. And they're expensive. _Really _expensive, Fin. I can't afford one, no matter how often I work. I just can't support us _and _pay for her healing. You know what it's like to need something you can't have."

Finley bit her lip, clenching her hands in the cloak.

"I-...I don't want to lose my mom, Fin." She said, her voice small, and sniffled. "You of all people should understand that." Finley visibly flinched. She understood. And oh Light, she wish she didn't. With a frustrated sigh, she turned back to the crying barmaid and shoved the cloak into her hands.

_"Fine. _Just...If I end up in prison for this, it won't be pretty." She hissed. Naelle wrapped her arms around her, still sniffling.

"Thank you, thank you, _thank you." _She whispered, her voice trembling. "It won't be a problem for you, I _swear." _

If only she knew how wrong she was.

* * *

><p>So there's that! I feel like this chapter was inordinately long, which is weird, because this was originally going to be a fairly short story. Not anymore, apparently. I'm not a short-and-sweet kind of person, I suppose.<p>

Also, plot! I see it! Wonders abound!

So, speaking of plot, I'm kind of in the market for a beta, both in terms of plot, characterization and the technical stuff. (and if I want all that, perhaps _multiple _betas.) Does that whole beta-finder still exist? Or perhaps some of you may have suggestions on where to find a good one? I just really feel I need to talk plot with someone, and none of my friends play WoW. A tragedy, I know.

So, anyway, review; any and all constructive crit is welcomed :)

-Penguin


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